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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231632">Let My Love Be Your Crown</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_seaworthy_muffin/pseuds/the_seaworthy_muffin'>the_seaworthy_muffin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Merthur Week 2020 Prompt Fills [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Insecure Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), M/M, Magic, Pillow Talk, Protective Merlin, Slightly Introspective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:26:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231632</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_seaworthy_muffin/pseuds/the_seaworthy_muffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur’s crown is broken. Merlin patches it up for him. An Established-relationship, Court Sorcerer!Merlin fic with (vast) undertones of tenderness and H/C. (Also magic, but when there’s Merlin, is magic ever far behind?)<br/>Written for Merthur Week 2020 Day 2: “I’m so proud of you.” + Established relationship.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Merthur Week 2020 Prompt Fills [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066679</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Merthur Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Let My Love Be Your Crown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've been making a bit of effort to switch to a drier, faster-paced writing style, and this is my last indulgence before that! Lots of introspection and (hopefully) tasteful metaphor-ish things. Also some banter and lots of heartfelt conversation.<br/>Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, nor am I making any money off of this! Purely a work of love and self-indulgence. :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> “I heard there was another assassin today,” Merlin tells Arthur accusingly.</p>
<p> Arthur sighs, latching his chamber doors and peeling off his official coat. It does have the benefit of making Arthur shine like the king he is, all rich velvet and intricate brocade in Pendragon red and gold, but it’s a bloody terror to take off. Merlin slides down from his spot on Arthur’s sheets and pads across the floor to help him with it. “Yes. One of the━” Arthur’s voice breaks off halfway through, and Merlin knows instantly what kind of assassin it was.</p>
<p> Arthur had repealed the ban upon magic shortly after his coronation, declaring Merlin Court Sorcerer and advisor in all things Arcane for all to see, but Uther’s purge had been long and brutal. Chasms like that are not easy to bridge, and there have been a long stream of wronged sorcerers and their families, either come to hurl abuse upon the young king or to- such as today- make an attempt to take justice into their own hands.</p>
<p> Merlin surreptitiously runs his hands down Arthur’s muscled flanks, reassured at the familiar tingle of his own shielding charms. It is not that he doesn’t understand━ blood calls for blood more often than not, and if anyone had hurt his mother, or Arthur……</p>
<p> <em>No. Better not to dwell on things that have not come to pass</em>. But, deep down, he knows that nothing would have been enough to quell his thirst for vengeance then. He would have called fire down from the sky, cracked Camelot open by the very bedrock it lay upon. The things he would do, the things he <em>can</em> do, frighten him, and he simply purses his lips and lets Arthur’s discarded coat fall to the ground with a muffled clunk.</p>
<p> “I wasn’t there to protect you,” he whispers, voice hoarser than he would have liked it to be. Arthur gives him a wry look, a brief counterpoint to his previous air of defeat, and holds his hand out for his nightshirt.</p>
<p> “Yes, you weren’t. Though I think those half-dozen layers of shields you lay upon me yesterday are more than enough to compensate. I have a feeling my body may actually be sturdier than rock walls at this precise moment.”</p>
<p> “It wasn’t━”</p>
<p> “Shhhh.” Arthur rubs the back of his hand against his eyes; something he only does when he’s very, very tired. When he continues, his voice has softened considerably. “Merlin, I’ve told you; I can’t walk everywhere with a magical body-guard trailing my every steps. I have to show the people that I trust them.” A pause. “I want to be a king people are proud of, Merlin. Not one they fear.”</p>
<p> “They are. Don’t you <em>dare</em> say otherwise.” Merlin can feel the magic rearing up in him in indignation, the gold flaring in his eyes. Sometimes, he wishes Arthur had never changed from that prat he’d first met. Sometimes. It would hurt a lot less. “Don’t you dare.”</p>
<p> “He said it was a disgrace, Merlin.” Arthur falls down onto the bed, a soft <em>thunk</em> echoing across the chamber. Firelight flickers across Arthur’s aquiline nose, draping half of his face in shadow. A strand of golden hair falls across Arthur’s forehead, pricking at his eyes. Merlin clamps down on the urge to reach out, push it away. <em>He</em>. The assassin. Anger wells up somewhere deep in Merlin. He loves him, his beautiful broken king, but he cannot forgive that the world will never stop trying to break him down. “He said it was a disgrace the son of a tyrant still sits upon the throne.”</p>
<p> “Because attempting murder is so much more honorable, hmmm? Did he throw down a gauntlet and everything? Recite his titles, bid you meet him at the tourney fields for his <em>‘bruised honour’</em>?”</p>
<p> That forces a laugh out of Arthur, despite it all. “No.” Blue eyes slide to meet his, highlighted in soft amber in the glint of the candles. “No, he did not.”</p>
<p> “See, then. Not so honorable after all.” Merlin leans back, peeling the covers back from the bed with a flick of his wrist. “Come to bed, Arthur. Everything seems better from behind a filter of sleep.”</p>
<p> Arthur cracks another smile at that. <em>Yes.</em> It’s a bolstering thought, that Merlin can still make Arthur <em>laugh</em>, for everything they’ve gone through. The surge of pride that thought brings is deeper and more potent than any successful enchantment, any ground-shattering spell. “Of course you would say that. Lazy sod.”</p>
<p> “Which I wouldn’t have had to be if I hadn’t served a prat of a king.”</p>
<p> “Sorry excuse of a manservant.”</p>
<p> “Happily retired now, thank you. I’ve found better employment opportunities now.”</p>
<p> “Oh.” Arthur rolls to face Merlin. He’s so close his breath brushes against Merlin’s lashes, knee knocking into Merlin’s. “And what may that be?”</p>
<p> “Warlock to the court of Camelot. Healer. Advisor.” Merlin reaches out to touch Arthur’s cheek, trace the curve of his cheekbone with his finger. Ah, that annoying strand of hair- he brushes it away, soft, tentative. “<em>Royal</em> <em>Consort</em>.”</p>
<p> “I see you’ve been spoilt sick with all of those titles,” Arthur says, but his eyes are helplessly fond. Merlin smiles. “Maybe. Go to sleep, Arthur.”</p>
<p> A brief brush of his magic against the air, the barest of thoughts, and the candles are out. Arthur shifts.</p>
<p>Silence.</p>
<p> “He broke my crown.”</p>
<p> Merlin is shocked wide-awake. “Broke your- <em>Arthur</em>. It was the last thing your father gave you.” For all that he had- yes, hated- the man, he is still Arthur’s father. Blood. Kin. Breaking Arthur’s crown is a statement of sorts, perhaps, that he will not stand for Arthur’s authority, but it was a showy gesture, one unneeded and cruel. One meant to humiliate. Anger rises thick and fast in Merlin’s veins. “<em>Show</em> me.”</p>
<p> Obliging, Arthur pads barefooted across the room, pausing to open a flat box that had been resting on the corner of his table. The glint of metal catches off of the shards, moonlight turning the molten gold of the crown grey-tinged, all washed out in tones of silver and white.</p>
<p> <em>Oh</em>.</p>
<p> Once beautiful and proud, the metal is twisted beyond recognition, blackened and charred in places, cleaved into pieces in others. Something clenches deep in Merlin’s gut. <em>Wrong, wrong, wrong,</em> his magic whispers. <em>Wrong</em>.</p>
<p> The twist of Arthur’s mouth is wry, self-deprecating. “Not much anymore, is it? Even Tom said he didn’t know how to fix the thing. I think I may have to commission a new one.”</p>
<p> And then Merlin knows what to do.</p>
<p> “No. No, you won’t.”</p>
<p> “I won’t?” Arthur tilts his head, quizzical. “Merlin, I know you have many talents- I’ve seen you bring an entire forest back to life, believe me- but even you’re not a smith…… <em>Oh.</em>”</p>
<p> Merlin cradles the mangled crown in his hands, calls upon his magic to right the <em>wrongness</em>. It rises, clear and eager like a bubbling brook, nudging against his skin, sparking electricity against his palms. He closes his eyes, blows out a soft, whispered breath.</p>
<p> Breathes new life into the crown.</p>
<p> Strands of magic twist against the metal, settling in as if they had always belonged there, weaving the gaps together, setting the edges alight with a thousand glittering crystals of gold. It’s somehow of this world but utterly <em>not</em>, glowing softly like sunlight cupped in gathered palms, flowing but solid and strong and proud.</p>
<p> “Merlin,” Arthur whispers, and wraps his arm around Merlin’s waist. His voice is filled with wonder, blue eyes alighting with tremulous emotion. “<em>Merlin.</em>”</p>
<p> Merlin takes a deep breath, centering himself. He raises the crown above his head, sliding it softly onto Arthur’s bowed head. The crown has nothing on its king, Merlin thinks. <em>Nothing</em>. Arthur may not have magic, and may be far from perfect all in all- Merlin has seen to him in the mornings of week-long quests, after all- but he is always <em>fighting</em>. For what is right, for his people, sometimes, Merlin thinks with a wry twist of his lips, if he deems himself inadequate for some self-sacrificing reason of his, even against his very self.</p>
<p> Merlin does something he hasn’t ever dared to do all of these years for all his insubordination. He brings his fingers to Arthur’s bowed head, and presses gently, tilting it up. Arthur looks at him, lips parted, eyes wide and open and vulnerable, almost like a newborn babe.</p>
<p> “Arthur,” Merlin says, trying his utmost best to pour all his surety, all his faith into that one word. “I don’t care what the other people think. I know how hard you’ve tried,” a lone tear, sliding quietly down Arthur’s cheek. “How much you <em>care</em>. And for that alone, I am so, so proud of you. Always have been. Always will be, to the end of my days.”</p>
<p> Merlin thinks of the glint in Kilgharrah’s eyes when he’d spoken to him, the strange looks druids seem to give him when they don’t think he’s looking. <em>What does Emrys mean, anyway?</em> He’d asked, desperate for some answer, anything, as to what he really <em>was</em>. The answer━</p>
<p> Well.</p>
<p> “You may find that’s quite a considerable amount of time,” Merlin finishes, voice more quiet than he’d meant it to be, and Arthur’s breath hitches in his throat.</p>
<p> “I don’t deserve this,” he says, gesturing helplessly at Merlin, carefully taking off his newly-restored crown and laying it gently down upon his bedside table. “I don’t. <em>Merlin</em>━”</p>
<p> “I don’t care,” Merlin whispers fiercely, slotting his lips against Arthur’s. All his desperation, baseless fear and love and anguish and want and pride, fierce and burning like the strike of a thousand arcs of lightning. “You’ll always have me. Always. Until the end of my days.”</p>
<p> “Our,” Arthur corrects him, gently. “Our. Because, Merlin, I think you’ll always have me too. Until the end of <em>your</em> days.”</p>
<p> “Prat. Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Merlin murmurs, because there’s what the dragon said, and the prophecies, and what the druids said, and oh, look at that, <em>the prophecy</em>. Arthur pulls back, and there’s something so utterly kingly, determined, achingly gentle in his eyes, that Merlin is tempted to <em>hope</em>.</p>
<p> “Well,” Arthur says, leaning back in, and smiles against the soft skin of Merlin’s neck. “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>[The End]</em>
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